LET us find out a pleasant tomb
For the little one,

That never tasted of the gloom
Of the life that it begun.
Where the flowers are fairly growing,
Where the brooks are gladly flowing,
Glad skies and green trees showing,
Let us bury the child.

Decay must finger its smooth brow,

Those limbs to the tomb must go, And the revelling worms we know Are awaiting it below.

But we'll think of the young thing smiling,
Long hours for sad hearts beguiling ;
And we know there's a gentle whiling
In the young tomb flowers.

Sing a pleasant song, young mother!
Check complaints that do arise!
Christ is clasping thy child as a brother,
Above the arched skies.

Then cease thy idle weeping,
For the little one that is sleeping;
Gather hope flowers that are peeping
From its grave.

Look, young mother, and thou shalt see
Flowers fair as a maid just wed,
But winter is coming, and merrily

Winds will laugh at the blossoms dead.
But spring from the south is coming,
On the hills again shall be blooming-
The frost king usurper's assuming
A short reign.

As the winds sing merry measure

O'er the summer months' decline,
So King Death is having pleasure
O'er that lost one of thine.
But he killeth not what he blighteth-
Thy child no grave benighteth;
The grave that young spirit lighteth
Like festal hall.



Then find a pleasant place to lie

That little white form in, Where the brooks with laughing note go by, And the birds make merry din.

And here we will come when gladly
Summer skies are shining, nor sadly
Will we weep for the young child, madly
Mocking heaven.


"Whate'er the wanton spring,

When she doth draper the ground with beauties,
Toils for, comes home to autumn."


He is a hale old man;

He is a stout old man;

There is light within his eye,

Tho' his head be silvery,

And his cheek is blanched and wan.

He is a glad old man;

He is a laughing old man;

And though his voice is thin,
He would think it were a sin
Not to sing if song began.

He is a talking old man ;
He's a tale-telling old man ;
And he has many a store
Of actions done of yore,
When this life he first began;



A warring, swearing young man,
A fighting, stalwart young man,
With an arm as stout and staunch
As a green oak's strongest branch,
And warm blood that swiftly ran.

He is sitting by the warm fire,
He is sitting by the bright fire,
And no man's lot envies he,

With a brave child on his knee,

Kissing the warm cheek of its sire.

Red lips that fair child's are,

Soft lips that fair child's are,
And marked you how the blood ran
Bright in the face of the old man,
As it kissed its grand-papa.

'Tis a pleasant sight to see,
'Tis a gladsome sight to see,
That well matched grouping there;

For each are passing fair-
Hale old age and infancy.

An old man glads the eye,
An old man lights the eye,


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